On Your Other Side
by Ready-made Prodigy
Summary: “We’re two men who happen to be room-mates, wrestle a lot and share a bed. It’s badass.” Robert Downey Jr. Well, here’s a few drabbles on how this all came to be and what it came to mean.
1. Practicality

_Summary__: When talking about the upcoming revival of Doyle's timeless mythos and the rumors circulating about Guy Ritchie's "new gay interpretation", Robert Downey Jr. was quoted saying, "We're__two men who happen to be room-mates, wrestle a lot and share a bed. It's badass." Well, here's a few drabbles on how this all came to be and what it came to mean._

_Author's Note__: This can be nonslash or slash, whatever strikes your fancy, but it is predominantly nonslash. If you want to go into the specifics, it's more shounen-ai, that indefinable friendship that reaches an intimate closeness but is ultimately never consummated or outright discussed._

_So far I have five set ideas for the drabble series, so there will be at least 5 chapters. _

_Personal Note__: I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE THE NEW MOVIE. _

**Practicality **

"This is it then," Wiggins proclaimed as he delivered the couple to the doorway of 221B and the infamous offices of Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.

"Ah, thank you lad," answered a one Mr. Harold Streep, who looked torn as to whether he should tip the little urchin or leave it be seeing as the boy would probably help himself to his pockets if he didn't so anyways.

Mrs. Streep, for her part, looked as though she was quite certain the boy had fleas.

Wiggins felt a flare of anger at the couple's less than complementary view of him. After all, he had brought them to where they desired and, as Mrs. Hudson immediately opened the door upon seeing him, audience to the exclusive consulting detective. The least they could do was express their gratitude with a few manners.

"Go on up Wiggins, I'm a little under the weather so you will have to alert the Master yourself," Mrs. Hudson said wearily.

Wiggins gave a grave solute to the woman who had often fed him and saved a tin of biscuits for when he and his friends stopped by. "Gotcha, Missus Hudson. Hope you feel betta real soon."

She patted him on the head before retiring into her rooms with a sleepy murmur of, "Good lad."

He led the couple to the second floor only dimly lit by the hearth. Wiggins was surprised to see neither the Doctor nor the enigmatic detective awake or both as Mr. Holmes' eccentricities were of the type that would keep any man up. He turned on a few of the gas lamps and directed the couple to take their seats on the settee, while he went to fetch the man they were so desperate to find. Wiggins recalled with great satisfaction, the look of confused bewilderment on their faces that this dirty street urchin had complete access to such a mysterious life.

He walked to the side room and poked his head into the room, calling softly, "Mr. 'Olmes, some clients 'ere to see you."

He knew better than to shout. That, he knew, was a very risky business. Waking a man who usually dealt with murderers and serial killers by making a racket is entirely unwise.

Through the splash of light from the sitting room, Wiggins saw the darkened shape of a man raise himself on one elbow, squinting at Wiggins as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Wiggins? God Lord boy, what time is it?"

"Just a li'il after one in the morn, Doctor Watson. You've got clients sir, they say it's an emergency."

"I see, we will be out in a moment then."

"Aye aye sir," Wiggins trumpeted, catching a glimpse of the now fully alert army doc shaking the lump beside him, murmuring something unintelligible as Wiggins shut the door behind him.

"Right then. Donchou worry Mister and Missus Streep, Sherlock Holmes will be seein' you in just a bit and I guarantee you'll haf nothing to worry about," Wiggins assured them.

Holmes was first to emerge, not even bothering to change and only wearing his dressing gown over his disheveled night shirt. The couple, who were obviously of an affluent status, looked slightly appalled at this, but it served them right, Wiggins thought belligerently. If they were going to impose on the detective at this time of night, then they shouldn't give a hoot what he was wearing as long as he'd see them.

He just finished tying up his robe when he turned to Wiggins with his usual courtesy and deference.

"Thank you for your assistance Wiggins. What seems to be the problem?"

Wiggins flushed with pleasure and launched into the story of coming upon the young couple after they had positively fled from their hotel, deriving further pleasure from the fact the Streeps looked positively offended that the great Sherlock Holmes would totally ignore them for the word of a boy. He was about halfway through his story when Watson immerged, dressed in proper trousers and vest, attending to what his colleague had not and offering the couple some tea or a shot of brandy for their nerves as well as giving his customary apology for his friend's behavior.

The couple were too stunned to do much more than nod. After all, it took no great skills in observation to see that both men had come from the same room or to deduce that this house had too small of a design to allow for a room big enough to accommodate two beds.

However, whatever reservations they had were slowly erased as Holmes impressed them with his unparalleled talent for deduction, as was his wont to do. After he had guessed that the couple had been married for only six months, most likely during mid June judging by the tan marks around their ring fingers and they had recently been vacationing in Derbyshire due to a matchbook he noticed Mr. Streep had in his jacket pocket and all manner of other trivial and personal secrets from everything from her hair style to his coattails, the couple seemed to be more at ease.

"We of course, almost religiously follow all of your adventures in the Strand, but to see it implemented in real life! How do you do it?" Mrs. Streep gushed.

"It is—"

"Elementary?" Mr. Streep suggested with a knowing smile as if this were some piece of intimate knowledge.

Holmes looked positively taken aback. "What? No, it is _logical_, my good fellow. Where would you—? I've never said that in my life. Did you write that Watson?"

"No."

"Then why the deuce—"

Watson cleared his throat in the hopes of silencing his friend. "At any rate, Mr. and Mrs. Streep I can say with all confidence that Mr. Holmes is everything if not more than the man and detective you have read about and promise that we will be on the case and will most probably inform you of our findings by noon tomorrow."

The two nodded dumbly as they were ushered out of the room. Dr. Watson asked me to see them out as he and Mr. Holmes took their usual seats by the fire to discuss the delicate nuances of this new case.

I led them down the stairs and out, all the while having to listen to their infernal whisperings.

"I don't know Elizabeth, should we stake our names and reputations on such men?"

"It is mighty queer that two men…but it's not unheard of, although that doesn't make it any less distasteful."

"They didn't even seek to hide it. That's what's truly disgusting. Like they were proud of it."

Wiggins burned inwardly at the impertinence of these people. What right had they to judge anybody? To say that he was just a worthless pickpocket, like he was just one of the things dirtying the London streets like mud or lazily discarded newspaper or that the two people most willing to help them were disgusting, sinful vermin.

"Now you look here," Wiggins demanded sharply, feeling suddenly very imposing as he stood at the top of the steps as they stood flummoxed on the sidewalk outside of 221B, "I won't have you sayin' nothing bad 'bout Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They are the best sort of men, a fair lot better than your 'usabnd 'ere," he added sneeringly, "And just 'cause they share a bed. I sleep with my mate David all the time."

"That's different, you're only children," Mrs. Streep simpered, like he was far too slow to understand the concept.

But Wiggins kept on. "It's just practical, is what it is. What if there were a fire? Mind as well not waste time going after your buddy if he's right there next to ya. And fer Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, it's even worse. They got plenty of people who'd like to see 'em dead. They're willin' to put anyone to justice even if they're the most dangerous criminals in London. They've got'ta protect each other and the reason they take that risk are for slobs like you. The least you could do is to keep your mean thoughts in those stupid heads of yers and be grateful there're people who give a damn!" Wiggins finished vehemently.

Just then a cab came round where then the wide-eyed Mr. and Mrs. Streep quickly crawled into like whipped dogs. As for Wiggins, he walked home feeling as if he won the battle of Trafalgar himself.

_Later that night in the rooms of Sherlock Holmes in 221B, Baker's street…_

"Watson?"

"Nnnmm?"

"Could you get me some water, old chap?"

"Of course."

Watson stumbled out of bed in order to pour a glass for his companion and pushed the glass quickly into his hand as he dropped back into the bed. He felt the other man's soft laughter vibrate through the bed.

"And pray tell what is so funny about this night? We have stolen jewels and finance papers and three suspects, but no motives and only potentially three more hours of sleep before we have to investigate this whole mess."

"I was only thinking how convenient this set up is. You are better than even Mrs. Hudson."

"I am glad to be of service," Watson grumbled.

There was a moment of silence and then Holmes spoke again, more seriously this time, "Have you your revolver close at hand Watson?"

"Yes."

There was another pregnant silence where Watson could just hear the controlled exhale of his bedmate. "Good. I postulated that my solution to those threatening letters we had been receiving should have been implemented by now, but whether it has reached its full effect I am not certain. The propensity towards human error makes it damn near impossible to predict times even if I am certain of its effectiveness."

"It's enough Holmes," Watson replied, voicing the unspoken fear in both their minds, but felt Holmes tense nonetheless.

Watson sighed and in a decisive movement, brought himself closer to Holmes so that they were touching back to front.

"Watson!" Holmes practically choked.

"It is more _convenient_ this way," Watson retorted, stressing the word so that the verbal irony was not lost, "You steal the blankets. I can at least benefit from the body heat you are garnering from all the stolen sheets. I daresay you are better than retrieving a substitute."

Holmes was swift in his retaliation. "Shall I wake you in the morning?"

Watson groaned. Holmes may be fine with only a few hours sleep as truthfully, he was also, but it didn't mean he was happy about it. Deciding he should get whatever sleep he could since Holmes would do whatever he pleased anyways, Watson ignored him and immediately fell into slumber beside his friend, who placed his now empty glass on the bedside table.

That was the way things were after all. Holmes, the early riser would wake Watson up in the mornings and Watson, the light sleeper that harked to his army days would wake Holmes in the nights and each took care of things in their own separate ways in their rather unorthodox and wholly interconnected lives.

It was convenient and practical.

**-o-O-o-**

_Author's Note: The word 'buddy', a reduced form of the word 'brother' originated in the 1840s-50s, well within the Sherlockian time range. Although it was an American phrase…but give me some creative liberty here._

_Review. Just a simple word or two to prove that you read it and hopefully enjoyed it. Like Holmes (or any writer for that matter), I thrive on getting brownie points._


	2. Preparation

_Thank you Osa, Protector of the Gray Fortress, and rabidsamfan for your lovely and supporting reviews. Osa, that was a wonderful tidbit of historical accuracy. Thanks for the validation._

_rabidsamfan, hope you find this chapter as good as the last. Glad you found me entertaining._

_PGF, wow, your review was quite flattering. I hope I can live up to your praise._

**Preparation**

Poor John. My poor, sweet John, thought Mary fondly as she held her candle a little closer so that it would illuminate the face of the man dead asleep on the bed, mouth partially open and face slack from utter exhaustion. He had been at Scotland Yard today, filling out autopsy reports and no doubt making double to give to Mr. Holmes as well. Although strangely enough, he had come home for lunch, cheerful and bearing a few flowers he had admittedly plucked from an unattended window box he had passed by on the way home.

John isn't inattentive, not at all. As far as it goes for many a working man, John certainly knows how to balance between a hectic and busy lifestyle and spending time with me and attending to the household. And yet, he seems strangely perceptive when it comes to me.

Just today when he came for lunch, I had not realized I had missed him until after he had kissed me goodbye and told me he would be back for a late dinner as well. It was so strange, suddenly realizing how lonely you were after the fact you just sat down to shared a meal with the exact person you were missing. But there you are, that's how I felt. Yet John, bless his heart, he had known somehow. I could tell by the worried brow and soft penetrating gaze he gave me as I watched him leave through the window. When I asked him about it later he shrugged and replied that he had observed that on days he would not come home for meals, I had a tendency to talk about the details of the breakfast or lunch he had been absent from. Not obviously, he assured me, just little things like mentioning the table cloth was just cleaned or the hollandaise was thick. He figured it might have been because I felt like he was missing such things, like I was pointing out that he wasn't present to notice.

I was shocked at this answer, partially because I knew at once that it was true, that buried deep, I had felt that way and that hurt and loneliness had bubbled up behind my defenses. I was also shocked because for a moment as he explained all this to me, I saw the same satisfied gleam in his eyes as his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

As I sat there surveying my sleeping husband, I thought about all the times John had been able to interpret my moods or had guessed something offhand that had astounded me. Nothing so great as knowing exactly what I did that day and where I had been and what carriage I had taken all from a smudge of mud on my skirt, but would remark if I had been visiting a relative when I certainly had when he could have just as easily guessed I had been visiting a friend.

I suppose my revelation isn't exactly a brilliant deduction, he had lived with London's most brilliant consulting detective for several years after all. But I do wonder if he gained such insight from the deductive reasoning and logistical skills he had learned from the man or from simply living with the man himself. Sherlock Holmes could not have been the easiest person to live with. Did John learn Holmes' talent or just how to deal with people?

Just then, probably reacting to having a light being shined in his face for too long, John made an irritated sound in the back of his throat as he turned his face away from the source of the light. He batted some imaginary irritant was a flick of his wrist, muttering sleepily, "Don't smoke in bed Holmes, you'll get ash between the sheets again."

Most likely it was the latter.

As I blew out the candle and laid down in bed beside my husband I mused that perhaps I should write a thank you note to Mr. Holmes. It would seem I owe all my thanks to him that my John had been prepared in being the most attentive and perfect housemate…

…and bedmate apparently.


	3. Comfort

_Thank you pompey, Monty Twain, and reflekshun for your supportive reviews._

_Post-Hiatus fic_

**Comfort**

There were many reasons why Inspector Lestrade was in a particularly foul mood. One, because the day previous had been particularly foul and judging by the gradually lightening sky, today would be equally so. Two, he had blood on his trousers because as a reward for his promptness, the blood was still fresh at the scene when he arrived, meaning that the strictly regulatory examinations on the body had to be conducted whilst kneeling on a sticky and demonstrably wet floor. How his job could beat the dawn and why anyone would want to commit murder at such a beastly hour was beyond him. Although it was rather convenient that he had not the time to eat breakfast as it would have certainly led it to being spectacularly expelled at the sight of the mutilated corpse, which led to the third reason why he was in such dour spirits. When one finds a corpse in the middle of the street with nothing on his person to identify him and missing its head, knowing that most of the time Scotland Yard couldn't even identify a body with at least one of those things most of the time, it had fallen to him to find the only person who could—Sherlock bloody Holmes, which incidentally led to the absolute pinnacle of this overall odious day. Not only did he have to go to Baker's Street before six o'clock in the morning with blood stained pants to ask for help like a dog with its tail between its legs, but he had to do it with Gregson. Oh, a thousand curses on the god that made this so!

Lestrade knocked several times on the door, knocked being only a conventional literary term seeing as he was using the door to more or less pound his frustrations upon. When no one answered after some time, the inspector stood, contemplating whether or not he could justify simply leaving.

Lestrade could almost see the impatient roll of his counterpart's eyes. "You know where they keep the spare. Now quit dallying, we have a job to do."

The inspector had to bite down his furious retort about not having a job at all, not with this private consulting detective around. He knew better anyways. Scotland Yard was constantly flooded with cases of rape, murder, and mayhem on a daily basis. If Mr. Holmes could lighten the load and help clean the streets of London, then thank God for that. If he didn't want to see his country free from crime, he wouldn't be a Yarder. It was just the hour of the day and all the other various factors that had caused him to have such an ungracious thought.

He didn't bother to look around if anyone was watching. No one would be up at this hour. Hell, he certainly didn't want to be up. Sidling up to the right of the doorframe, he removed a small panel of the wood, dropping the flawlessly made camouflage unceremoniously on the ground. Confronted with nothing but more wood, he pushed on one corner until it swiveled, revealing another panel with a rectangle impression in the center, surrounded by a circle. With three of his gloved fingers he managed to turn the circle clockwise three quarters to the left and then two full turns to the right. Lestrade felt the minute loosening of the rectangle, meaning that whatever mechanism that kept it locked in place had released, allowing him to slide it down, revealing the secret compartment containing the spare key to 221B. He took it and hastily put it in the lock only to find it didn't work.

"Confound that man and his eccentricities!" he growled, shoving the fake key back in its place along with the thirty other steps it took to fully conceal it.

Gregson let out an almost imperceptible sigh. "I'll check the other spot then."

After applying a simple algorithm to the arrangements of bricks on the left side of the retaining wall beside the steps and then failing several times, the two of them were finally able to extract the correct key from a hollowed out brick and successfully gain entrance into the flat.

Lestrade irately confirmed his suspicions that Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, was away and without invitation made his way up to the sitting room with Gregson. The hearth was well lit, meaning the detective had probably been up late into the night. Also to attest to that was several dozen papers strewn about and the thick smell of tobacco that permeated the room.

Lestrade suggested that Gregson take a seat and wait while he went to get Holmes, but Gregson, in his obstinate manner, declined. Their usual and quite genuine competitiveness ruled out the possibility that only one of them would be delivering the specifics of the case and Gregson was defending his position by making this first step of rousing the detective a joint effort.

Unable to do much more than accede, Lestrade threw open the bedroom door with Gregson right behind him. In retrospect, it was probably better that there was someone else to witness such an event, otherwise he would not have been able to believe his eyes.

There in the bed of Sherlock Holmes was Dr. John Watson, the two in gentle repose, both held in a loose embrace.

"Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade uttered, the shock increasing its volume.

"Inspector Lestrade." Holmes' voice cut through the air like a whip, so clear and commanding that Lestrade had to wonder if the man had been asleep at all. "I will be up in a moment, however it will take a little more time to wake up my companion. Dr. Watson, as you know, is quite averse to waking up before eight for anything less than a fire. Now if you would please return to the sitting room, we will be happy to entertain the two of you as soon as we are ready."

Lestrade numbly complied, shutting the door behind him and retreating into the sitting room, standing nonplussed in the middle of the floor. Gregson meanwhile, set aside a stack of papers onto a nearby table and sat upon the settee with a kind of forced calm, like if he acted as if nothing had happened, so would Lestrade. But Lestrade couldn't do that. He was a Yarder after all. It was his job to enforce the laws of his Queen and country.

"They're deviants, criminals…" Lestrade murmured, "I'll have to…"

"You will leave them alone, Inspector," Gregson said in a low, controlled voice. "Nothing of consequence has occurred tonight."

"Nothing of—you saw it as well as I did Gregson!"

Gregson shook his head, almost sadly. "No Lestrade, I suspect I saw something entirely different."

Gregson's tone made him pause for a moment. Lestrade stared at the man whom he considered more a rival than a colleague. Gregson's hands clenched around his knees, his face pinched with some concealed pain, but the eyes that looked into his own were as open as cold winter skies.

"You have never served, have you?" Gregson asked, voice still as soft as Lestrade had ever heard it.

Lestrade shook his head.

"I joined the army only a year out of university and my younger brother joined with me. At the time, I had been glad, happy to have someone I would be able to trust, someone to talk to. I was stupid and selfish. When my younger brother should have been attending his first year at the university he was out getting shot at. Then one day he stepped on a mine and I was showered with the bits and pieces of my younger brother. I collected every piece and had to bury him in a mass grave in foreign soil.

"At first, I thought it was my fault. I should have told him to stay home, should have protected him better, but after a while, when the grief faded into a daily part of my life, I knew that it was ultimately his choice to be there with me. That's what got me through my army days, knowing that he was right next to me in our tent or out in the goddamn forest and I would be damned if I didn't wish every night that I could just wake up with him right there beside me. Experiences like that changes you."

"Doctor Watson may feel like that as he has served in Afghanistan, but Holmes—" Lestrade reasoned, although weakly.

Gregson smiled. "You think so Lestrade? Have you ever considered how many times Holmes and Watson have stood back to back in some dark alley, outnumbered with only each other to rely on or how many nights they spent in some strange place not daring to sleep knowing that it could lead to their deaths before the morn? Do you doubt that they have faced the worst kind of dangers London has to offer? If you don't, then please, have a little pity on them. You have been with Scotland Yard for over two decades, you know the dangers they face, but without backup being a whistle blow away. Allow them this little comfort."

Lestrade remained silent, staying his judgment. Needing something to do, he hurriedly helped himself to a cigarette he found laying strewn about on the table next to a silver cigarette case with the inscription _From JHW to SHH_. He lit it with shaking hands and leaned against one of the sturdy chairs around the table. It was another few minutes when the bedroom door finally opened and admitted the two men.

Lestrade's head shot up to meet them and he searched their faces for the answer to their final reckoning. Watson was standing a little behind Holmes and although one could attribute his slumped shoulders and bowed head to tiredness and being roused so early, Lestrade knew it was for another reason entirely. Holmes was calm and cool and as collected as ever, lips upturned in his customary sardonic smile as if everything in this world was but a trifle to his superior intellect, greeting them with his usual mix of impatience and excitement, but his body language told a different story. His feet were spread a shoulder length apart with his right leg slightly behind his left, the beginning of a boxer's stance, and his left arm hovered away from his body and stretched just slightly toward Watson as if he intended to shield him.

Lestrade made his choice.

"There's uh," Lestrade cleared his throat, "there's been a murder. A body's been found out on Oak street missing its head and nothing to identify it. We have been able to determine that the victim is male."

"A very useful fact," Holmes said and Lestrade fancied it was missing his usual barb of sarcasm. His fighter's stance flowed into a fluid walk and his arm drifted back to his side as he strode into the room.

"Doctor Watson, why don't you sit down? We are sorry for waking you up so early," Gregson apologized smoothly, gesturing for Watson to take a seat by the fire.

Watson blinked, as if shocked before leaving his friend's side and coming to sit in his customary arm chair. His eyes went from Gregson to Lestrade, murmuring, "Thank you, thank you."

Lestrade had the distinct impression it wasn't for the courtesy.

"How long ago was the body found?" Holmes prompted him after tossing Watson a pen and one of the many journals that lay strewn across the corner desk.

"Not more than—Christ!" Lestrade looked at the clock, finally realizing what time it was, "Around two and a half hours ago, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes smiled. "I see you had some difficulty with the spares. Mrs. Hudson is out on holiday I'm afraid."

Lestrade's ears burned and he began to immediately regret his choice.

"Perhaps I should give you your own key, so in future Scotland Yard will have no difficulty reaching me," Holmes replied casually, then added in a more businesslike manner, "Even now the body grows cold and the crime scene more contaminated. Lead on Inspector, you can tell us the details on the way there."

In his own way, Holmes had said his thanks as well.

"Watson—"

"Yes, yes Holmes," Watson interjected, pocketing his journal and picking up his medical bag, which was less filled with medical equipment than an assortment of all of Holmes' various sleuthing tools. He also dug a pair of leather gloves from between the seat cushions and pressed them into his friend's hand.

Watson sighed long sufferingly at the incomprehensible look Holmes gave him. "It's cold Holmes."

"I suppose, but incidentally I shall have to take them off when I make my examination of the body."

"Then wear them while we take the cab there."

"I don't see the point."

"And I don't see the point of arguing, if you want your hands to freeze like a fool, do not complain to me."

"You would refuse me treatment?"

Their banter spanned all the way there and continued on after the investigation of the crime scene. Lestrade was comfortable with his choice. After all, unless he was in the bed with them, it was really none of his business and thank God for that because they sounded worse than an old married couple. Lestrade didn't even want to know what went on behind that door and was satisfied that no law had been broken and that business would go much more smoothly with the key currently residing in his pocket.

_That night in the bedroom of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson…_

Watson slept fitfully and although he didn't thrash about enough to disturb his bedmate, Holmes simply couldn't sit by and allow him to continue on in such a manner, moaning and tensing beneath the covers.

Holmes gently shook his companion's shoulder, calling his name. When Watson finally woke up, he stilled instantly, gulping down air like a drowning man.

It came out only as mere whisper, but Holmes could hear it. "You were gone. I couldn't find you."

Laying shoulder to shoulder Holmes was easily able to locate his friend's hand in order to entwine it in his own, strongly and reassuring.

"I'm right here Watson."

"Good."

Holmes didn't know what brought it on, but something of his own fear rose up, clawing out from where he had carefully hidden it deep within his heart and away from his analytical mind, something that had been brought on by his own loneliness and unknowing during that horrible time.

"Holmes, I'm alright," Watson whispered, clutching his hand with equal intensity.

"Good."

They remained like that for the rest of the night, hands held tight within each other's grasp to prove they were whole and hale and simply _there_.

It was comforting.

**-o-O-o-**

_Holmes' statement to Lestrade about Watson and waking up for fires is a reference to the Jeremy Brett and David Burke episode of The Solitary Cyclist, where Watson was waken up by a rueful looking Holmes and he looks at the clock and says, "It's 7:30. What, is there a fire?" Which I thought was hilarious because honesty, 7:30 is not early at all and why the hell would someone need Holmes and Watson for a fire anyways?_

_I hope everyone liked this chapter. It's my favorite along with Practicality. These two chapters express something of the same idea on two different emotional levels. REVIEW._


	4. Intervention

_A/N:__ The original draft of this chapter was horrendous. You're lucky that I was sufficiently distracted by my actual full length adventure Sherlock Holmes fic that I didn't just rush my original draft and post it on Friday. BTW, once this drabble compilation is over I will be releasing my SH story, __An Adventure In Cold Blood__. Hope you guys will all return to check that out._

_WARNING:__ This is a darker fic. I mean, compared to my last three chapters of cuddly, fluffy, cuteness, this is pretty damn dark. Trying to explore my full range here. Mentions of drug abuse, blah blah, minor violence._

**Intervention**

I was awakened that morning by a strange sensation that took an inordinate amount of time for my sleep addled brain to categorize and assess. It was not pain or some sort of auditory or physical stimuli. I felt no amount of distress that would preclude to my being alerted to a potential danger or sensed another person in the room. In fact, I was cold. Why then, did such a simple phenomena warrant such confusion in me?

Ridding myself of the last vestiges of sleep, I blinked rapidly in the early morning sun and systematically swept the room for any signs of change. I noted immediately that the window was latched shut against the winter chill, but even quicker still did I realize that not only was I the only person in the room, but I was also the sole occupant of the bed. The reason for my confusion became suddenly clear. It had been a long while—nearly four years, if I'm not mistaken—that I had awoken without the warm presence or embrace of a bedmate. Watson, for reasons I could not fathom, was not in his customary place beside me snoring away.

I continued to ponder the matter as I got out of bed, attending to my toilet and retrieving my dressing gown from where it was draped over the chair. Watson had never been known as an early riser even if there were important things to attend to that day. It had always been left to me to wake him if there was any need to. Our arrangement had never been a formal one, merely an unspoken agreement between the two of us. It was a deeply personal matter, especially to me, therefore it was also a very private one and we had never really discussed it. Perhaps he had wished for some solitude last night or had opted to stay at his club. However, much to my chagrin, I could not remember any pertinent details from the previous night that would allow me to deduce his whereabouts this morn. I chafed at this lapse in deductive reasoning, but figured it would be cleared soon enough to not make much of a difference anyway.

I opened my door to the sitting room, catching Mrs. Hudson placing a bouquet of fresh flowers in a vase on the table and requested some breakfast be brought up straight away. She did so cheerily enough, probably rejoicing at the rare times I actually could be found with a good appetite. Faster than I could imagine she had eggs and toast on the table, paired with fried tomatoes and the morning paper.

Knowing that Watson preferred I not waste my appetite on awaiting his arrival, I ate my fill and was already engrossed in the paper for a good twenty minutes before he showed up. I heard him first. His slow steps down the stairs informed me that he had indeed chosen to retire in his own rooms the night before. I did not look up from the paper as I greeted him, getting only a faint grunt in response—as I said previously, Watson could never be called much of a morning person.

We sat in what I thought to be a comfortable silence as he ate and I continued to read the paper. I did think it odd that he was so taciturn this morning, but it was earlier than he normally woke, so I dismissed it. After finding absolutely nothing worthwhile reading in the agony pages, I expertly began to fill my pipe and light it as I folded the paper with my other hand, gaze straying towards the window and the street outside, my mind desperate for something to stimulate it.

Unbeknownst to me, it would be Watson who would be soon drawing all of its attention.

A woman wearing but one glove had become the subject of my focus when I heard the clatter of the tray cover smash loudly back down onto the plate of eggs. My eyes immediately broke from its examination of the lady to the table before me. Watson sat clutching his long ago injured shoulder which had evidently been the reason for him dropping the tray cover, but what most caught my notice was the unsightly bruise that marred his face, stretching from just beneath the eye across his cheekbone and reaching toward his temple.

"Watson!" I exclaimed, aghast at the sight before me.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Not that man, your face!" I said, jumping to my feet to get a better look, "Who did that to you?"

I instinctively reached out to feel for swelling, but to my unending shock my hand was quickly and forcefully thrust away, his hand immediately coming up to intercept me. The look he gave me was one I would never forget. There was anger, yes, and a fleeting look of shame at his response, but at the very core of it was the instinctual reaction of fear.

Watson was afraid of me.

Suddenly the reason for my inability to recall events of the night prior and his absence came to a sickening conclusion. I had taken cocaine that night before bed and as a result, I had struck Watson.

"But how—?" I breathed, words choked by the horror that was slowly consuming me.

"I think you may have taken a much higher dose than usual," Watson answered, his tone clinical.

The hand that had been rightfully rebuffed and possibly had dealt harm to my one true friend curled into a fist as a furious rage suffused through me. I had known that the use of cocaine was damaging. I knew it in a scientific sense and from experience, but I had never thought it to be evil. As the only thing that could save me from the abhorring boredom and excruciating pain of an otherwise meaningless existence, I never thought its effects to be dangerous to anyone but myself. Watson had always warned me. I had not listened. He was right of course. Last night's batch had been closer to ten percent than seven as I had not chosen to water it down nor had Watson the opportunity to do so.

"You dropped into bed and lay there like a corpse," Watson continued, "I had merely wanted to check on you and determine what was wrong, when you…" he trailed off, refusing to look me in the eyes.

"Why did you not fight back?"

"I tried," Watson ground out between gritted teeth, "Unfortunately, you knew how to…how to hurt me."

The moment he said it, I knew it was true. I could easily imagine it. A quick jab to the old wound in his thigh would drop him in a position where I could access his shoulder. With enough pressure exerted on the injury, the pain would leave him powerless to defend himself from a direct attack. Either from my active imagination or the actual memory, I could see with clarity blow by blow what I had done and unbidden, the image of my friend forced to limp from the room he had shared with me for over four years flashed in my mind's eye. It was a place of trust and I had utterly ruined it.

"I am sorry, Watson."

He finally looked at me and as he met my eyes, I could see he recognized the sincerity of my words, knew the gravity and weight of them. He was not my only friend for nothing. He knew I was not one to waste words or mince them until they lost their meaning. Tentatively, I went to rest my hand on his shoulder, forcing my movements to be slow and deliberate, so that he could perceive my intentions. I was relieved when he allowed it.

"Please believe Watson, that under any other circumstance, I would never hurt you or let you come to harm if I could help it."

"I know, you were not yourself." Watson grabbed my hand, looking imploring into my face. "That's what those drugs do to you Holmes. If you truly want to fulfill that promise all you would have to do is get rid of that needle and do away with it altogether. You can't," Watson closed his eyes for a moment and when they opened again, his gaze softened with understanding, "you can't do it only for my sake. It would never work. You have to do it for yourself. You have to want to give it up."

I considered this for several minutes. For the first time in my life, I hated myself for using the drugs. Before, they had been a necessity and I had never thought they had me less of a man for indulging in them. I wasn't addicted nor did I allow them to interfere with my work and before this moment, what little I had of a personal life, but now that it did, I had to reassess its role in my life.

"Forthwith, I promise never to use cocaine before I go to bed or in any instance where I could endanger you, but I cannot promise to cease my use of the drugs altogether. I cannot and will not purger myself in such a manner nor do you deserve to be given an oath I may not be able to abide by," I said slowly, considering my decision very carefully.

Watson sighed in relief, allowing a small smile to grace his drawn features. "It is a start, I suppose."

I nodded and strode over to my chemistry table, locating a jar of a sort of jade green paste and bringing it back to the table.

Watson eyed it suspiciously. "And what is that, pray tell?"

"My own recipe for clearing bruises. You see good fellow, it is infused with—"

I went on to explain its properties and the history behind its discovery, which incidentally had something to do with a dog and young man I had met from university. Watson was extremely grateful seeing as he had a great many patients to see that day and with a touch of stage makeup I kept at the ready for my disguises, he looked absolutely normal. All except for the prominent limp he had as he made his way out the door and the way his shoulder sagged, like it carried a heavy burden upon it and as I watched him enter his cab I knew I was to blame for that and thus began my thoughts on my drug habits all over again.

**-o-O-o-**

It had been over a week before the urge had come at me again. I had been consulting for Scotland Yard's cases for several days and I had been exceedingly frustrated by their presumptuous use of my skills, that I am a mere tool to supplement their deficiencies vexed me greatly. Also the only case that I had taken for myself turned out to be a gross misjudgment of character caused by a couple of ladies who had little else to occupy their hollow minds and because I had said as much they had deemed fit to defer payment for my services since I had accomplished very little anyhow. A thousand curses on the maker for creating the fair sex with more attention to their bodies than their brains.

I must have been staring a little too longingly at the locked drawer of my desk because Watson soon caught my eye, question written surely across his face.

"Due to the altercation that occurred last Thursday, it is only fair that I warn you that perhaps you should retire to your own quarters for tonight," I announced.

Watson's jaw tightened as his gaze flicked over to the door that led to our shared bedroom. "That room is as much mine as yours now, Holmes, and I have as much right to it as you."

It was true. Watson's room functioned as little more than a storage room these days. In fact, I had even started putting some of my museum pieces into it. Somehow over the years, Watson's more personal items had found their way budged up next to my pictures of felons with my case files all scrambled up with his romantic accounts of our adventures. It was unfair to ask him to leave it.

I shrugged. "Then I shall take the couch. You may lock the door if you worry for your safety."

With a fire I had not thought Watson capable of, the Afghan veteran took up a bottle of brandy from the sideboard, removed the stopper and upended it all over the settee. He then set the empty bottle back in its original position and faced me with the calm of a man who had not just ruined one of our few furnishings and possibly incurred the considerable wrath of our landlady.

"What will you do now?"

"I suppose," I blinked several times as if the sight of the ruined upholstery would disappear, but the smell of spilt brandy continued to overwhelm my senses, "I shall go to a hotel or stay in one of my bolt holes for the night."

"You would go through all that trouble just to indulge in that _substance?!_" Watson shouted angrily. "For such a brilliant man, you make such stupid choices in life Holmes!"

With that he strode angrily to our shared room and slammed the door behind him.

Another revelation suddenly hit me. Not only could the use of the drug physically affect Watson, but it emotionally affected him too. For a moment, I did not know how to deal with the situation. It seemed that the most logical solution would be to seek out my relief in the privacy of a hotel or one of my other lodgings, but I could not in good conscience leave Watson in such a state. I had promised that I would not do anything to hurt him. It was my responsibility to uphold it.

I felt weary as I entered our bedroom. There were times when life simply held no pleasure for me, that idle gossip and the mundane repetition of routine wore away at my soul, a soul that isn't a soul at all, but a mind, a mind that only finds pleasure in the intrigue and scandal of crime and the puzzles they present.

"Watson, I am here," I stated before taking to the bed.

"Are you—?"

"I am sober," I confirmed.

He obviously must have believed me because he promptly scooted over to the right side of the bed, allowing me access to my usual place on the left. I sighed and dropped down onto it, turning to face away from my friend.

"Thank you," he said quietly into the darkness.

"For what?" I questioned, somewhat disinterestedly.

"For choosing this," he said, nudging his shoulder against my back, "over your drugs."

I suppose that is exactly what I had done, but what it meant I had no idea. I settled for pursuing a line of inquiry I could solve.

"Watson, why did you not just leave that night or tell me sooner?"

"It was late. I did not have the energy to call a cab or somehow figure out a way to explain the bruise when I arrived back in the morning. I considered lying, telling you that I had been attacked by some wayward pickpocket but—"

"I did not deserve it," I finished.

"No," he agreed, though not unkindly, "As for telling you sooner, what was I supposed to do, bound into the sitting room and scream how you had beat me like a drunken Irishman?"

"It would have been within your right to do so," I answered, although I was more than a little embarrassed by his vivid description.

Watson chuckled. "Oh Holmes, I knew full well with your powers of observation you would have been able to notice soon enough. It seems your flare for the dramatic has rubbed off on me. Perhaps I was hoping that in doing so it might have impressed upon you to consider a change as my warnings had thus far gone unheeded."

"It did indeed prompt me to consider the matter, among other things," I replied.

Watson yawned. "That is well then. It might even be worth having to wear makeup for a month."

"Is it also worth facing Mrs. Hudson's wrath on the morrow?"

"Perhaps, we shall see how badly I emerge from that beating."

"I do not envy you, my friend."

"A real friend would help bear the blame," Watson grumbled.

"Nonsense, a gentleman never lies, especially on the whereabouts of a certain brandy and how it came to be fermenting within our sitting room couch."

Watson muttered something unintelligible and dug himself further into the sheets, his back digging jaggedly into mine. Watson may not have been a substitute for my cases or my seven percent solution, but at least with him I was not miserable either. I mused that at least I would not be cold in the morning.

**-o-O-o-**

_A/N__: According to information gathered on the internet, cocaine taken in abnormally high doses can cause restlessness, irritability, and paranoia which could lead to violent outbursts. BTW, I have yet to read a fic where Holmes actually hurts Watson. Inadvertently shoots him, sure, or leaves in the hands of his kidnappers when he is too late to save him, but it's never actually him doing the harming. I just had to cross that line._

_Thank you:__ reflekshun, KCS, Pompey, Gnome, and shedoc for your lovely reviews, especially KCS since she's a pretty big deal in this fandom. Also LOL's to shedoc for her review and THANK YOU gnome for commenting on my 'elementary' joke in chapter 1._

_Thank you__: PieAnnamay07, Emilth, Vining, reflekshun, and Protector of the Gray Fortress for adding me to their various Story Alert, Favorite Story, and Favorite Author lists. Although shame on those who did that without dropping in a review. That's totally mean. It's like eating from someone's pantry without thanking the host. REVIEW, it's my cocaine._

_Also, special thanks to liquidficnet for listing my story under their slash links. I was trolling for H/W slash myself when I saw my own fic listed, which was both hilarious and mortifying at the same time, seeing as how this fic was not meant to be a slash fic at all. Really, seriously, not slash. If I wanted to write slash, I would and it wouldn't be border tipping like I am now. At any rate, thanks for the laugh liquidficnet._


	5. Intuition

_WARNING: total crack!fic_

**Intuition**

He did it again. That insufferable, no-good, wretch of a man. His genius only stretches as far as his insanity. Both armchairs, both! Turned the Doctor's chair into a block of swiss and succeeded in upending his own into the bleedin' fireplace. Bullet holes, singed cushions! Trips to the carpenter and the seamstress and her unbearable, simpering twit of a daughter. If I have to listen to another tale about one of her supposed suitors I will be forced to commit murder. It would be no large feat. Mr. Holmes keeps his more volatile chemicals in the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet and that hemlock mixture in that old bottle of cognac. No, no it would not come to that, I thought savagely. I would not become a criminal for anything less than the brutal murder of the one who drove me to such heights in the first place.

"Is something wrong Mrs. Hudson? Surely the damage is repairable," Holmes stated dismissively, absently palming an Austrian Gasser revolver.

I realized that I had been silently seething for more than a few minutes and hastened to cover up my murderous thoughts. Surely a man so attuned to the criminal mind could sense my intentions. It would do no good to be found out so early.

"It is indeed sir, but may I enquire as to why the furniture has been subjected to such abuse? I was unaware that they were disreputable or so disagreeable to your tastes," I said blandly.

"They are not. I assure you it was perfectly necessary. I was merely trying to determine through experimentation the availability of using basic household furnishings as cover against varying projectile weapons."

For a man so brilliant, I am always surprised that he takes almost no notices of my blatant use of sarcasm. Either that or he simply doesn't care, in which case he is simply an arse.

"And what exactly were you trying to deduce from burning your armchair?" I questioned, trying hard nto to imagine snatching up that gun right there and then.

"Oh, a casualty of scientific discovery, I'm afraid," Holmes replied.

"Well, I can't do much for them until the morning, which is regrettable," I said, this time without sarcasm, "since the good doctor has been working very hard this week and deserves more than a hard desk chair to spend his evening in."

The Doctor held a very special place in my heart. For one, he was not the kind of lodger that went about destroying furniture for no good reason. Two, he was the only one who could fully understand the depth of my frustrations whilst living with a man of great eccentricities and general difficulties.

Holmes frowned. "Nonsense, there is plenty of room here on the settee."

I tried not to blink. "Of course there is. I will bring up dinner in half an hour's time."

I let a knowing smirk spread across my features as I turned to leave the room.

**-o-O-o-**

Dr. Watson made it home shortly after I had begun to set the dishes on the table. The poor man looked absolutely miserable. To spend a day in the presence of the sick and dying must be tragically depressing. Not to mention coming home to find your favorite armchair had been used for firing practice. He stood passively by as Holmes assured him that they now knew with perfectly certainty that they could survive an Austrian assassin, a German trapsman, an ex-military American, and the average Londoner, although to be wary of prize hunters recently back from Africa or India. As I said before, no one knows my pain more than the good doctor.

He thanked me for the meal, roast duck and boiled potatoes, and quietly apologized for the damage, assuring me that the two of them would pay for it with the completion of their next case. As I exited the room once more I could see out of the corner of my eye, Watson sit down at the table and after a few moments of coaxing, succeeded in having Holmes join him, although the man looked positively loathe to do so. Honestly, only he could substitute actual meals for tobacco. Insufferable man.

**-o-O-o-**

The next time I entered the room, I found the two sitting companionably upon the settee. By the time I had gathered all the dinner plates onto the tray for removal, Watson had begun to nod off, the grip on his papers slackening. Before I made my exit, I turned around to witness Holmes shift ever so slightly to accommodate the Doctor's head upon his shoulder as he continued to brood in the firelight.

My grin spread like a Cheshire cat as I went down with the dinner tray. In my room I sat diligently counting the minutes until I could observe the two once more.

**-o-O-o-**

It was nearly an hour before I heard the shuffling of burdened steps upstairs and I hastened to make my well planned interception. I wish I could deny I did not burst into the room like a rosy cheeked maiden, but to be fair it was an acceptably accurate description.

Thus I witnessed Holmes, supporting a practically drooping Watson at the door to his bedroom, only just managing to turn the knob while keeping his friend from falling face down on the floor. He looked at me with some annoyance as I entered. It was obviously somewhat difficult to support the Doctor in that manner. Watson was no small man even with Holmes' whipcord muscles concealed in his infinitely lean stature.

"What is it Mrs. Hudson?"

"What are you doing with Doctor Watson?" I asked, hoping to sound obtuse.

"I am putting him to bed," he answered tightly.

"May I remind you that the Doctor's rooms are on the second floor?"

"Yes, I am aware, however as you pointed out earlier, Watson has been particularly exhausted this week and he needs all the rest he can get, therefore I would be remiss to wake him just to make his way to his room when my room will suffice for the both of us. I am also exceedingly lazy, so dragging him up the stairs is not an appealing venture." He quirked his eyebrow at me. "Is that a problem?"

I shook my head. "Of course not. I brought you a pitcher of water, Mr. Holmes," I said, raising the object up some before placing it on the table, "but I must warn you now that my brother has sent me an urgent wire and I must go join him at the Broadcost Manor at once. I promise to return in order to serve breakfast tomorrow morn."

Holmes nodded distractedly as he began making his way into his bedroom, still holding his friend with as much tenderness as he could while more or less hauling him onto the bed.

"That's find Mrs. Hudson. I hope you find everything well with your brother. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

I then left the room, measuring the time of my steps down the stairs before opening and closing the front door with a definitive amount of sound. Waiting several breathless minutes I then removed my shoes and crept back up the stairs and to the sitting room to hide behind the back of the settee, listening for any sounds coming from the bedroom.

**-o-O-o-**

It was two hours before I gave up the game, so entrenched in my miscalculation I barely had the mind to keep quiet as I exited Baker's street. I found myself a cab where I was deposited at Broadcost Manor where I used my key to enter through the gate in the garden and made my way to the back entrance to the manor's kitchens where my dear brother was already waiting for me, a single candle upon the meticulously clean countertop by which he promptly lit a cigarette which he offered to me as I sat. The idiot was already grinning like an idiot before I could take my first drag.

"So?"

"Nothing." It cost me every ounce of dignity to say it.

"Ha! Pay up, big sis."

"If only I had a little more time."

"Time, how much more time would you need? How long has it been since this has been happening?"

"Four months."

"And how many days in a row now?"

"Twelve."

"If they have been sharing a bed for four months and have been doing so continually for the last twelve days and you still haven't heard the sound of rutting, chances are it will _never_ happen."

"You can't know that. Unlike _some _men, maybe they prefer to take their relationship slowly."

He snorted. "What I do know is that if they were in a relationship there would be no way you could simply lie beside the gorgeous body either one of them possesses without trying anything. Incidentally, I also happen to know that this is half of the amount we agreed upon. Now cough up."

"No! You have a distinct advantage over me."

"Last time I checked, I lived four streets away and have never had any dealings with them or know anything about them other than what you inform me of or what I read in the Strand's publication of 'A Study in Scarlet'."

"Yes, but you know all about men who have dalliances with other men."

"Martha, I am shocked! I am not just a man who knows about men who have dalliances with other men. I am a man who does much more than have dalliances with a lot of other men."

"Bollocks, you've been with that Laurence bloke for over a year now."

"Doesn't mean we don't both enjoy other men."

"Oh Lord, that is quite enough. I will go to hell just listening to you. What is your reason for thinking Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson aren't together? If you explain, I will give you your money."

"Fine. For one, I do happen to believe that Holmes is not at all controlled by his baser urges, to the fairer sex or otherwise. I suppose that's the price for having a mind like his. You don't receive a gift without giving something up in return. For something as great and unique as his skills, he would have to give something of equal value. Personally I feel sorry for 'im. No amount of genius would make me give up taking pleasure in the touch of another. Now, in the case of the Doctor you said his prowess spreads across the continent?"

"Three continents."

"Exactly. See, with such credibility, Dr. Watson has enough self assurance to be confident in his own sexuality. Between the two of them, sharing a bed holds no sexual connotation whatsoever."

My eyes narrowed a fraction. "Which one do you fancy then?"

"Watson, without contest. He's caring and warm and compassionate. Not to mention his moustache is exceedingly endearing. There is also the added exhilaration of knocking such a fine specimen wholly off the beaten path. The good Doctor could heal my hurts any time. I suppose you sway towards the world's only private consulting detective?"

I hid no blushes in the candlelight. "Indeed. Mr. Holmes leads an intoxicating lifestyle. Dr. Watson is simply too…vanilla for me."

The two laughed and left their speculations for another day.

_Meanwhile in the room of Sherlock Holmes of 221B, Baker Street…_

"Holmes, come to bed, I'm dreadfully tired."

"In a moment dear fellow, I am preparing my disguise for the morrow. I am to be a French aristocrat. _L'exécution sera magnifique_," he said with a flourish of an ostentatious lilac cravat.

"I don't care," Watson replied irritably. "I'm cold."

Holmes sighed dramatically. "_Je ne te refuse rien, coeur cheri_."

He then blew out the candle and slid into the bed and Watson waiting arms, like they had done for several months now. Curious to see how far he could play this game, he whispered almost seductively, "_Je t'aime, Watson_."

Watson groaned. "I love you too Holmes, now if you would please be quiet, I would really like to get some sleep."

"I didn't know you could speak French, old chap."

Watson's response came muffled from the depths of his pillow. "Any man worth his stone would learn at least that much of _le langue d'amour_. I've no patience for poetry so learning the French tongue was infinitely easier in order to achieve success with the ladies."

"Oh yes, infinitely easier," Holmes drawled.

"Holmes," Watson moaned.

"Very well, I will see you in the morning. Although, if I may say one more thing—"

"Let me sleep, goddammit!"

"Fine."

Holmes fell silent thinking that perhaps now was not the best time to announce their landlady would not capitulate their fall into ruin due to the fact that she was thoroughly infatuated with him. Watson would be thoroughly put out if he knew Mrs. Hudson preferred Holmes over himself. Holmes also decided that perhaps telling Watson which Hudson did prefer him would have him fleeing out of the room in an instant, which would just not do seeing as how it would continue snowing for the next five days at least.

No, sleep was the much more intuitive thing to do here.

**-o-O-o-**

_See, total crack!fic. One parts due to the fact I didn't have a bloody clue what I was going to write about next and other part due to the fact that I depressed myself thoroughly with the last chapter. Honestly, Ch.4 was my last planned chapter. This chapter was actually the result of the scrapped first chapter I wrote titled, 'Laziness' and the fact I suddenly realized that although Wiggins, random clients, Mary, Lestrade, and Gregson knew about these two, Mrs. Hudson has been mysteriously absent. I had to correct that._

_Oh by and by, I did not intend to comment that gays are naturally promiscuous with my dialogue of Mrs. Hudson's brother. I just wanted to have a promiscuous-esque character. The fact he was gay was just a comedic coincidence._

_Sorry if this chapter wasn't up to snuff. I couldn't help myself. Although honestly, this is how I imagine Mrs. Hudson's inner dialogue must be like. She lives a life of utter craziness._


End file.
